


making biscuits

by illihee



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:22:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illihee/pseuds/illihee
Summary: it's been a long time since toby slowed down to make something from scratch, and he can't think of a better place to take his time than in macen's kitchen.





	making biscuits

“Five cups of all purpose flour, two cups of cake flour.”

Hazy late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the arched windows of Macen’s kitchen, warming the pink-hued Etowah marble in front of him. Toby’s eyes followed his pointing intently, putting the name of each ingredient with its appearance; he had watched him measure out flour and cut butter in preparation, but he was too wrapped up in admiring the way he moved so steadily between the pantry, cabinets, and counter. 

“...one pound of butter, with a handful of cubes to spare.” The final, perhaps most important, ingredient on Macen’s memorized list would catch anyone born north of the Bible Belt by surprise. Some would make fun of him in response –  _ can the South even function without butter?  _ – but, with all the pride in the world for his cooking, Macen propped his hands on his hips confidently  before gesturing towards the flour. Toby perked up. “I already sifted the flours together n’ cut the butter, so what we’re gonna do is dump the cubes in and mix it with our hands. You grab the bowl of butter and start pourin’ ‘em in handful by handful while I hold this still.”

“Alright…” Toby nodded, pausing for a moment, then reaching for the little red enamel bowl overflowing with cubes of butter. He shuffled closer to Macen, to the point where their shoulders touched, and slowly scooped them in to the mixture; the shorter man made small noises of approval with each scoop until they were all in.    
“That’s a lot of butter. You sure we can mix all that?”   
“It might get messy, but yeah. The butter’s nice n’ soft, so as long as we gently pinch it between our fingers, it’ll mix well. You want the texture of the dough to be kinda like...chunky sand, before we put the buttermilk in.”   
Without hesitation Macen dipped his hands in to the steel bowl and began pinching, sifting his fingers through the flour to coat each cube. Still a bit awestruck by the way the Georgian moved so knowingly, Toby blinked himself out of his daze and joined him, picking up on the delicate kneading fairly quickly. 

It’s not like Toby had never made biscuits before. For God’s sakes, he was a tried and true southern man, the very heart of it all! Lowcountry cuisine would be nothing without the familiar flakiness of a homemade biscuit.    
But in the midst of daily life – commuting, work,  _ housework _ , obligations to the state – Toby had no time to sit down and bake homemade goodness. He had time to crack open a Pillsbury can against the counter and slide a tray into the oven, but nothing more, and it was starting to get to him.   
_ There’s no better self care, in my opinion, than spending time pouring love into the kitchen,  _ Macen would tell him.  _ When you come down this summer, we’ll start simple. Biscuits.  _ __  
So here he was, kneading, and admittedly the stress was melting away as easily as the butter in his fingers. But he figured just being in the presence of Macen ought to be helping, too.    
Helping a lot, actually. 

“Mm.” Macen smiled and rested his wrists on the rim of the bowl, looking the dough over with his gold-flecked eyes that glittered in the light. “This looks good. I’m gonna make a well in the dough and knead in the buttermilk- you do me a favor, clear off this space on the counter n’ cover it in flour.”   
Toby tilted his head, as if to ask  _ did I hear you right?  _   
“Cover it in flour?”   
“Yessir. Just get a big handfulla flour and sprinkle it over the counter- spread it, though. We’re gonna put the dough on the counter an’ the flour will prevent it from stickin’.” Hummed the boy as he lifted a measuring cup over the bowl. “Make it wide, ‘cause we’re gonna roll it out kinda thin.”   
The Carolinian nodded in understanding and went to the sink to rinse the slick butter off his hands briefly before returning to the island to move used cups and bowls around. At this point he would have just started ripping chunks out of the dough into vague ball-shaped lumps, but Macen could finesse the kitchen more than he ever could. “So…”   
Macen glanced up from his dough.    
“Biscuits have to go with somethin’. I know you said start simple, but we should make something to eat them with tomorrow…” Toby dug his hand into the flour container and began coating the marble, swiping his palm across it to cover it thoroughly. He trailed off, rifling through his memories to conjure up a meal suggestion, but Macen beat him to the punch.    
“Oh, we could do anythin’. Brunswick stew, chicken an’ collard greens, Frogmore stew...shame we ain’t closer to the Altamaha, I could catch us a ton of honkin’ catfish to fry.” He clicked his tongue, then huffed a laugh. “We could drive on out t’ Loganville and see if we can’t wrangle some river trout. I know a good spot.”   
Toby found himself breaking into a wide smile.    
“Is your good spot legal?”   
“Hush, you. You’ll eat whatever I catch and you won’t ask questions.”

That mischievous spark in Macen got Toby every time, struck him with all the same strength of a bolt of lightning sent cracking down from the wide open Georgia skies. He always acted out for the cutest reasons, too; hopped the bold-lettered NO TRESPASSING sign for a fat fish to fry, sneezed and fake coughed his way through Kimberly’s presentations at state meetings just to get a giggle out of Harper when she finally snapped at him.   
Ditching provost duty, climbing into a box car headed north, and footing his blissful way across mountains to see the look on his lover’s face when he just so happens to show up in the same place. 

Toby’s grin softened. By then Macen had plopped the ball of buttery, heavenly-smelling dough onto the counter and rolled it out once, a look of accomplishment on his face. “Okay. Now, watch closely, ‘cause you’re gonna do it after me. And you need to remember it for when you bake these on your own.”    
He snapped back to attention and backed up an inch to allow Macen to slide in front of him, where the dough sat laid out.    
“See, this is why it’s important that the counter be covered in flour, and that our hands have flour on ‘em too. If we handle the dough uncoated…” He lifted one flat end of the dough and folded it over towards the center. “The dough’ll stick to whatever surface it touches an’ rip. We can’t be havin’ that, since we worked hard on this, and each lil’ inch of dough contributes to a good biscuit.”   
Toby leaned his hands on the counter’s edge at Macen’s sides, peering over the top of his head while he observed. “Why are you folding the dough?”   
Macen folded the other edge over, lifted it up, and turned it seam-down.    
“Layerin’. Biscuits have layers, and by layerin’ the dough, we’re stacking the butter to make it extra buttery.” He turned to glance over his shoulder. “Go on, you try. Roll it out vertically and fold it.”

Toby kissed the back of Macen’s head, eliciting an embarrassed but happy noise from the other, before grabbing the rolling pin at his right. Recalling what he was taught, before pressing it against the dough, he took another handful of flour and coated the pin. “Good.” Chirped Macen, raising his arms so Toby could maneuver his under and roll the dough without having to move.    
_ Roll it out vertically. Not too thin...it was about an inch thick when he folded it. Careful not to rip it, make sure the flour is keeping it from sticking.  _ __  
In the process, Macen’s hands snuck their way to the tops of Toby’s, guiding but not controlling his handiwork. His thumbs stroked the knuckles of Toby’s own thumbs gently as the dough was folded in.    
“Roll it out one more time an’ we can cut the biscuits.”   
Before Toby could pick up the rolling pin again, Macen took it and pat it down with flour. This time Toby placed his hands on top of Macen’s.    
“If you wanted a biscuit with more layers, could you fold it again?”   
“Mhm, but only one more time. The key is t’ not overwork the dough. If you roll it and knead it too much, all the ingredients will blend together an’ you’ll get somethin’ more like a shortbread cookie straight out the oven.” 

Once the dough was flat again, Macen shoved the rolling pin far off to the side and picked up an empty glass cup that had been sitting in the background.    
“Oh. Thought that was just there for some reason.”    
Macen shook his head and held it up for Toby to take.    
“Naw. Fancy folks buy biscuit cutters, but a well-loved cup will do the trick too, if not do it better. Remember to coat the rim in flour, and when you’re cuttin’, don’t twist it. That seals the edges of the biscuit an’ makes it hard for ‘em to rise while they bake.”    
Toby carefully took the glass from Macen, who slid the flour container across the counter to bring it closer.    
“I get cuttin’ honors?”   
“You do.”   
He smiled again. “Should you preheat the oven while I cut? I saw the baking sheet is al-”

With perhaps a bit too much energy, he dunked the rim of the cup into the flour, and a cloud of white dust erupted around it. 

Without giving Toby a moment to realize what happened, Macen burst into laughter that had him doubling over the counter and covering his mouth out of slight embarrassment with each snort. Toby pursed his lips and set the cup down on the counter – cautiously, as if he were handling a ticking bomb – he mumbled. “I...sorry…”    
Macen shook his head once more and turned around to face him, still half-covering his mouth. “I’ve done it before, it’s okay- you have flour on your eyelashes.” He broke down into more giggles and softly headbutt Toby’s chest with his forehead. The taller man bit his lip to keep himself from laughing, but it escaped anyways — both stood there, laughing, covering each other’s clothes in floury hand prints as they worked into a hug.    
They calmed down and the humor passed, but the embrace lingered. Macen’s eyes closed as his cheek squished comfortably against Toby, who was fixated on the scent of fresh cotton linens that settled in the Georgian’s dark chalybeate hair.  
It was quiet for a few minutes. Nothing but the white noise of the keeping room’s fan and their intertwined breathing as the setting sun painted the sky outside vibrant orange and pink. 

People gave Macen a questionable look when he describes the use in having gone all-out on his kitchen, largest room of the house, complete with a wooden screen pantry door and warm overhead lighting, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. Most consider the living room the center of the home, where the fondest of memories are made; but most didn’t have the pleasure of knowing Macen Habersham. Most didn’t have the privilege of waking up to his homemade pancakes or eating to their heart’s content around his dinner table.    
It was sad that most would never come to know the taste of southern food mingled with sheer love, heart, and soul, but Toby reckoned it was better to have Macen to himself than to convince everyone in the world have a piece of him. Their loss. 

“Chicken and dumplings.” 

Macen spoke up, face still buried in Toby’s shirt.    
“I’ll have fixin’s for chicken and dumplings once these are done baking. Is that okay?”   
Toby lifted Macen’s chin up to nuzzle their freckled noses together. 

“More than okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> macen's recipe is based off of my family's recipe. and yes, flour really will "explode" if you dunk a cup into it. i know from experience.


End file.
